


The Dance Lesson

by bittergreens



Series: Goodnight, Vienna [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ALL THE TAGS!, Angst, Ballroom Dancing, Confused John, Dancing, Dancing Lessons, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, F/M, M/M, Missing Scene, POV John Watson, Pining Sherlock, Romance, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Slash, The Sign of Three, The Sign of Three Spoilers, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:57:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittergreens/pseuds/bittergreens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock teaches John to dip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dance Lesson

**Author's Note:**

> The biggest shock of season three for me was the revelation that Sherlock loves to dance. Simultaneously, the biggest disappointment was that Sherlock didn’t get to dance with ANYONE. 
> 
> I refuse to accept a world in which Sherlock and John did not get to dance together and share a magical moment. In my head canon, when Sherlock taught John to waltz he did it to _La Traviata_ , and it was a huge turn on for both of them. And thus, I present the result of those imaginings to you here now.
> 
> I'm planning for this to be the first part in a series that will explore various angsty, unrequited moments from season three. Stay tuned for further developments.
> 
> This is unbeta-ed and unseen by anyone other than myself, so any typos and grammatical mistakes are completely my own. I’m trying out a new thing where I don’t labor so much over every piece of writing. I may update with edits later on, depending on how much I hate myself in the morning after posting this. Season three has awoken in me a vast new ocean of angst, and the only way through to the other side seems to be writing as much as possible. We’ll see how it goes.

The year that John Watson got married was the year he experienced perhaps the biggest shock of his life.

Just when he thought Sherlock Holmes couldn’t surprise him anymore (he’d nearly outdone himself the previous year by revealing that he wasn’t, in fact, dead), he blind-sided John once again by throwing himself heart and soul into planning John’s wedding.

Never before had he seen Sherlock approach a project that didn’t involve death and mutilation with such fervor. It was baffling to John. He had no idea what to make of it. Of course, if he were honest with himself, he would concede that he hadn’t known what to make of _any_ part of his life now that Sherlock had waltzed back into it.

And yes, when he said ‘waltzed’, he meant literally.

Of all of Sherlock’s newly manifested abilities and interests (among them an acute predilection for discerning between different shades of bridesmaid dresses and envelope paper, not to mention serviette folding), the strangest by far was Sherlock’s obsessive conviction that John must learn how to dance.

Dancing. An activity that John had always assumed Sherlock would have deemed utterly beneath him, unworthy of his notice, the most abhorrently sentimental pursuit of all sentimental pursuits. In John’s prior estimation, Sherlock only directed his energy toward those activities that produced certain and specific results, those activities that were calculated, practical, scientific.

Dancing was none of these things.

Therefore, it was with a certain amount of trepidation that John agreed with Sherlock’s assessment that he would have to learn to dance properly before the wedding.

They had been sitting together one afternoon at Baker Street. Mary was out with friends, and they were currently experiencing a lull both in wedding planning and in client activity. John was reading the paper, Sherlock sitting across from him in the midst of one of his long spells of profound, uninterrupted silence.

John had almost forgotten Sherlock was in the room when Sherlock looked up over his steepled fingers and said, mystifyingly, as though they’d been in the middle of a conversation, “Dancing, John.”

“What about it?”

“You’re going to need to learn to dance. Really dance. Not what most people these days call dancing.”

John looked up from his paper to stare at Sherlock where he was sitting, one leg crossed over the other, his expression perfectly neutral.

“I’m sorry—what?”

“The wedding, John! Your wedding.” Sherlock stood up, primly fastening the button on his blazer as he did so. “You’ll need to learn to dance properly if you want to have the first dance with Mary and not make a fool of yourself.”

John continued to stare at Sherlock in bewilderment. “And you know about proper dancing, do you?”

“It just so happens that I do.”

“Bloody Holmes brothers.” John shook his head. “Let me guess, ballroom dance classes?”

Sherlock came and stood over John. He frowned condescendingly down at him. “Never mind. But if you want to learn you’ll have to practice.”

“What—now?”

“The wedding’s in six weeks, John. I should think if we start now we might have just enough time to get you in shape for a decent waltz.”

“A waltz!” John shook his head again, chuckling.

Sherlock’s face was dead serious. “It’s no laughing matter, John. You’ll want to look graceful, confident, and for the dance itself to look absolutely effortless. You’re strong, relatively agile, with good reflexes and a strong carriage so it shouldn’t be a problem for you, but you’re not getting any younger and you obviously haven’t done much formal dancing before, so I suggest we get a move on.”

John glanced up at Sherlock just to be sure he wasn’t joking but Sherlock was perfectly composed. 

John briefly considered telling Sherlock to piss off, but it occurred to him that he really didn’t know how to ‘properly dance,’ and besides, what else were they going to do with the afternoon?

John hid his smile behind his hand. He cleared his throat. “Right. Right, so… what do I do?”

“Well.” Sherlock took a step back, giving him room. “You’ll need to get up out of that chair for a start.”

It had been awkward at first. He had been awkward. Touching wasn’t something they did much of, not anymore anyway. It had been different before…. well, _before_. But now everything was different. There was a gap between them that John suspected they would never breach, in spite of the fact that Sherlock himself seemed somewhat… tamer, softer around the edges than he’d ever seemed before. He had more patience for John these days. 

Even though it was the middle of the afternoon, John had insisted on having a very large whiskey beforehand, while Sherlock went around shoving the furniture up against the walls to give them extra room.

John downed the last of his whiskey and went to stand in the center of the living room, wiping his sweating palms on his trousers while Sherlock’s back was turned, feeling like a bloody teenager.

Sherlock let John lead so as not to confuse him by teaching him two different sets of steps.

“Take my right hand in your left. Try to keep this hand always at eye level. Like that, yes. And then, your right hand on my… no, shoulder blade, John. Not hip.”

John cleared his throat nervously. “Right, sorry.”

John had expected Sherlock to be irritable and impatient as a teacher, especially with something that John was so visibly nervous about. It wasn’t that he wasn’t comfortable with his body. He was, in a variety of different capacities, but… he was your regular English bloke. Apart from some tipsy fumbling when he was a teenager that mostly involved attempting to get closer to girls, he’d never really _danced_. John had never been one for the clubbing scene and he’d obviously never had formal dance instruction of any kind, so needless to say he was more than slightly apprehensive about letting Sherlock Holmes manhandle him around a room to music.

But as John discovered, as soon as he’d taken Sherlock’s hand in his, Sherlock didn’t manhandle him at all. On the contrary, his movements were graceful and assured and not at all domineering. John was both shocked and impressed by the control he exhibited over his very long limbs and torso. The strong shape made by his arms never wavered, making it easier for John to keep his arms where they needed to be.

“So it’s forward on the left, side to the right, close the step, good, yes—then forward right, side with the left, and close the step.”

John discovered almost right away, to his complete shock, that Sherlock was a _bloody good dancer_. He didn’t simply command John around the room, barking orders. He actually _danced_ with John, gracefully, effortlessly, just the way he’d described. Not only that, he exhibited no difficulty at all in guiding John, despite the fact that John was technically leading. He was somehow able to signal to John’s body what it was meant to do without pushing him into it. Leading or following, his movements were similarly flawless.

In some ways, John wasn’t surprised. After all, if Sherlock Holmes claimed to be an expert at something, make no mistake, he would upstage everybody in the room. It was just… _dancing_? John never would have guessed. Never in a million years.

Perhaps the most shocking aspect of the whole experience was how much Sherlock clearly loved doing it. His joy was transparent.

As John started to get the hang of it and they began to actually move around the room, John was amazed by the transformation that took place.

“And _one_ two three, _one_ two three, yes—good, a little quicker on the side step—good.”

Sherlock, who had been quiet and withdrawn all afternoon, seemed to come alive before John’s eyes.

“Good, John. Very good. Let’s try it a bit faster.”

Sherlock was utterly focused on the progress of their joint movements. He kept up a constant stream of advice as he guided them through each new set of steps, delivering the information with the exuberance and speed John had only ever heard him use when making a deduction.

“Flex your knees. Use your heel to go forward, and then rise on your toes. Think of the up and down movement as constantly shifting, yes—just like that. Down, up, up, and down, up, up. Keep your head up. Neck straight. Shoulders back. Good. Yes, good. Keep your eyes on mine.”

His eyes, as John found them with his own, were shining with excitement.

“Shall we try it with music?”

Sherlock let his arms drop and John took a step back and nodded, slightly breathless.

Sherlock drifted to the other side of the room and clicked on the ipod, pausing to shrug out of his dressing gown and drape it over a nearby chair before coming back to take up John’s arms again.

Sherlock’s eyes on his were sparking with suppressed anticipation. “Ready?”

John nodded.

The music started. John heard the familiar strains of a famous Italian opera. He didn’t know the name of the song but he recognized the tune and could immediately pick out the strong three-beat rhythm.

“And…” Sherlock inclined with his head to signal the beginning of their steps, and John moved forward.

He was a little unsteady at first, nervous about keeping up with the speed of the music but it became clear quite quickly that the music made it much easier to keep time.

Sherlock counted for him as he helped guide John through the steps, so light on his feet it made John feel as though he couldn’t knock him off balance if he tried.

Sherlock’s fingers were warm in John’s hand, the touch of his left hand on John’s right shoulder so light John could barely feel it. John still couldn’t believe Sherlock’s ability to guide him where he needed to go despite the fact that John was in the leading position. With a slight incline of his head, a shift in his weight, Sherlock was able to direct John without saying anything at all.

John had always admired the way Sherlock carried himself, the grace of his movements, so he shouldn’t have been surprised that he had such a knack for dancing, but admiring someone’s posture from afar was quite another matter from feeling the strength of that body beneath your fingers, the flex of the muscles in Sherlock’s shoulders as his body turned.

John began to question whether that whiskey had been the best idea.

The difference to dancing with music was remarkable. With Sherlock’s expert guidance, they began to move all over the room, as lightly, as effortlessly as breathing. John forgot to feel awkward. He forgot that he didn’t know anything about dancing. He forgot everything but the swell of the music, the exuberance of Sherlock’s live body twisting under his hands.

They moved through the soft afternoon light filtering in through the curtains, setting off a swirl of dust motes, over the faded carpet that had witnessed so much grief, under the watchful gaze of the skull on the wall, and it should have been ridiculous, the fact that they were here now, together, back in 221B, dancing, but somehow it wasn’t. Somehow it was the exact opposite of ridiculous. It felt right, like every trauma they’d experienced had helped lead them to this moment, which was exactly where they were meant to be, hands clasped together, bodies moving in tandem.

John looked into Sherlock’s eyes to find them watching him, lit a brilliant turquoise in the muted light from the windows. John felt something in him stir at the intensity in Sherlock’s gaze.

Yep, the whiskey had _definitely_ been a bad idea.

They moved closer together as the song reached its end until there was hardly any space between them, Sherlock’s thigh brushing against John’s each time he stepped forward, their hips tucked close. John could feel the pulse in Sherlock’s hand under his own; he could smell the faint, slightly floral fragrance of Sherlock’s designer shampoo. It was exactly the same as John remembered it. He hadn’t changed shampoo in all the years he’d been away. The smell and the host of memories that came with it struck John all of a sudden like a blow to the chest.

He lost his footing, just as the music came to a halt. Sherlock caught him expertly, steadying him before they stepped apart, both breathless.

John looked up at Sherlock to see if he’d noticed John’s private emotional maelstrom, but he clearly hadn’t. His expression was exhilarated. John couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen him look so happy. He was practically glowing.

“That was excellent, John. Really good for a beginner. Shall I teach you a spin turn? It’s actually very easy.”

John laughed. The eagerness in Sherlock’s whole demeanor was infectious, but John shook his head. “I don’t want to do anything too complicated. I wouldn’t want to throw Mary off.”

“How about a dip?”

John hesitated.

“Come on, you’ve got to finish the first dance with a dip. It’s customary. And if you can manage me, dipping Mary will be easy.”

John couldn’t refuse. He didn’t think he could live with himself if he crushed Sherlock’s excitement.

“All right.”

Once again, the prospect of John bending Sherlock (Sherlock who had a good thirteen centimeters on John) backwards over his arm should have been completely preposterous, but somehow, with Sherlock in control of the proceedings it all felt perfectly natural.

“So after you’ve sidestepped with your left foot, you’re going to bend your right leg, keeping all your weight on your left foot to maintain your balance. Good, just like that. Keep your spine straight in order to counterbalance your weight as you lower her. Don’t lean forward.”

Sherlock stepped out of the pose to correct John’s position. 

“Straighten your spine, and keep your weight back. Otherwise you’ll both tip over.”

He put one hand on the curve of John’s lower back, the other on his shoulder, exerting gentle pressure until John straightened his spine.

“Like that. And if you point your right foot, you’ll get a nice line all through here.”

Sherlock ran a hand down John’s extended right leg and John felt a jolt of pure feeling go through him at the touch.

“Now, keeping all your weight on your left foot, rotate your frame to the left, turning your body as you lower her very slowly. No, just your upper body.”

Moving his hands to John’s hips, Sherlock turned him so that he pivoted only from the waist. John was suddenly, painfully conscious of the flare of heat from each of Sherlock’s broad palms, the curves of his long fingers where they curled around John’s hips.

“Keep your legs where they are and move just your upper frame. Good. Now extend your right arm to give her room to fully stretch while still supporting her from underneath. Here. Like this.”

Sherlock placed his hand just above John’s elbow, adjusting the position of his right arm.

“See how you still maintain this lovely shape, all through here?”

John nodded, suddenly aware of how hard his pulse was pounding in the hollow of his throat. If Sherlock noticed, he hoped he put it down to exertion.

He shouldn’t be so affected by Sherlock’s hands on his arms. The touch wasn’t even that intimate, but Sherlock’s movements were so assured, the grip of his hands assertive without being imperious, so unlike Sherlock’s normal demeanor. 

While John was panicking about his body’s reaction to Sherlock’s touch, his left arm had begun to droop.

“You want to keep both arms high. Look. Feel what my arm does.”

Sherlock slid his left arm along the length of John’s so that it was supporting it from beneath, then pushed up. He did the same with his right, so that his arms provided a frame for John’s.

John felt his breathing quicken.

This position actually was as intimate as an embrace. Sherlock’s chest was pressed against the line of his body, his hips tucked in against John’s lower back. Sherlock’s mouth was inches from the back of John’s head. He could feel his breath against his ear when he spoke.

“It’s vital that you keep your arms strong, John. Do you feel that? Feel the difference?”

John nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“Good.”

Sherlock stepped away and John felt an absurd stab of regret at the absence.

“Try it again.”

John repeated the movement, careful to keep his arms as Sherlock had instructed, while Sherlock watched him.

“Remember, spine straight to counter balance her weight. Good.”

Sherlock nodded, satisfied, and then took a step towards John.

“Do you want to try it with me?”

John hesitated. Sherlock caught his eye, his mouth quirking.

“I’m a good deal bigger than Mary you know.”

John cracked a smile and felt some of the tension go out of his body.

“You’re not that bloody tall.”

Sherlock sniffed, suddenly imperious. “You know I am.”

“Yeah, well I’m stronger than I look.”

They did a few waltz steps so John could transition into the turn, and he concentrated on keeping his spine upright and his arms high.

When he turned his body to guide Sherlock down into the dip, supporting Sherlock in his arms wasn’t nearly as difficult as he had imagined it would be. Sherlock kept his right arm up, his left hand on John’s upper arm, his body bending into a graceful arc over John’s supporting arm. Sherlock had an awful lot of neck from this position and John found himself staring at the long line of Sherlock’s throat, thinking how elegant it looked before quickly averting his eyes.

Of course Sherlock would love this kind of dancing; he was made for it.

John lingered perhaps only a moment too long before guiding Sherlock back up and onto his feet.

“Well done, John. Very good.”

Sherlock was beaming. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes sparkling from the exertion. John couldn’t remember a time he’d ever been so forthcoming with praise. He should probably be feeling more cynical about the fact but instead he found himself warming to Sherlock’s attention as he always did, and he looked up at Sherlock, offering an equally bright smile in exchange.

“Shall we try it once more with music and the dip at the end?”

John struggled to get his body under control without appearing too flustered. He nodded.

This time, Sherlock chose a different song. This one was slower, jazzier. John recognized it as soon as the melody started up.

_The way you wear your hat._  
 _The way you sip your tea._  
 _The memory of all that—_  
 _No, no, they can’t take that away from me._

Once again it was easy to fall into step with Sherlock’s arms holding his firmly in place, Sherlock’s body guiding his own. The slower pace of the song meant there was more time to linger over each movement, and in spite of himself John found his eyes drawn to the subtle sway of Sherlock’s narrow hips.

“Head up, John. Eyes on me.”

John looked up, mortified, and saw Sherlock lifting his chin in example. There was a flash of humor in his eyes.

John scowled at him, grasping for something clever to say in return. He couldn’t think of anything so he settled for changing the subject. “I’m shocked by the diversity of your musical taste.”

“You consider this diverse? It’s an American jazz standard from the 1930s, John.”

“I didn’t know you listened to jazz.”

Sherlock simply lifted an eyebrow.

They said nothing for a few more bars and John couldn’t help but feel the mood of the song steal over him. Even though it was the middle of the afternoon with sunlight streaming in around them, there was something unmistakably romantic about the symmetry of their two bodies moving to the deep tones of the female singer’s voice.

_We may never, never meet again on the bumpy road to love,  
Still I’ll always, always keep the memory of—_

Sherlock kept watching him as they moved and John fought the instinct to look away, for fear Sherlock would see something in his eyes that John didn’t want him to see.

_The way you hold your knife._  
 _The way we danced till three._  
 _The way you’ve changed my life—_  
 _No, no, they can’t take that away from me._

With Sherlock’s hand warm in his own, the shift of Sherlock’s hips directing him, his blue eyes intent on John’s, all of a sudden, John found himself overwhelmed with the poignancy of the lyrics.

Romantic though he may have been, John wasn’t someone who generally went to pieces over syrupy jazz numbers. However, there was something deeply melancholy in the simple sentiment of the song. It occurred to him that the words could have been about him and Sherlock. 

All those years apart, thinking Sherlock was dead, how often had he clung to scraps of memory? Tiny moments they’d shared, stupid things, forgettable things, would come back to John at the slightest provocation, and he’d held onto them, sifting through those little moments again and again, because he thought that was all he had left. 

He felt his throat close up with emotion. 

Embarrassed, he dropped his eyes, feeling Sherlock’s fingers shift ever so slightly in his own. He was afraid Sherlock had noticed but then he realized they’d come to the end of the song. Sherlock was signaling him to dip.

John stepped to the side and then tilted Sherlock in his arms, until he was bent over his left hand, his spine lengthening and curving back, the elegant line of his throat exposed once again to John’s eyes.

This time, John didn’t bother to avert his gaze. He let his eyes travel up the white column of Sherlock’s throat, up his long neck until he reached his mouth. God, that mouth. His eyes traced the curve of his cupid’s bow, the full lower lip. 

He’d thought about it. Oh, he’d thought about it dozens of times, especially in the old days. But why was the desire to kiss Sherlock suddenly foremost in his mind? Maybe because he’d never known Sherlock to be so gentle, so accommodating, so… embodied. That Sherlock could take such pleasure in an activity that primarily used his body and not his mind—it was a marvel to John.

Still John held the pose. Sherlock didn’t move. He was remarkably strong, holding himself up more from the strength of his own abdominal muscles than from John’s arm under him.

John’s eyes met Sherlock’s, and found Sherlock watching him again, his expression curiously open.

The moment stretched between them. John was so focused he didn’t hear the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs.

“Hoo hoo. Sherlock? Such lovely music, I thought I’d—Oops!”

Mrs. Hudson was halfway in the room when she saw them.

They both straightened up immediately and drew apart.

“Mrs. Hudson.” John cleared his throat loudly. “Sherlock was just showing me—”

“How to dip. Yes, I can see that.” Mrs. Hudson looked from John to Sherlock, her eyes glittering. 

Sherlock was standing like a guilty child, his hands clasped in front of him, his gaze fixed on the floor.

“Yes, for the wedding. For the ah—first dance.”

“How lovely. I’m sure Sherlock is an _excellent_ teacher.” Mrs. Hudson’s eyes were far too full of mirth for John’s liking.

“Well, yes.” John smiled briefly in Sherlock’s direction. It felt more like a grimace. “He is.”

Sherlock inclined his head.

“Well, I’ll let you two get back to it. Don’t mind me! I wouldn’t want to interrupt.”

“No, no, we’re… all finished now. I’ve got to get going anyway. Mary’ll be done soon. Wouldn’t want her coming home to an empty flat.”

Somehow the comment came out harsh and vindictive-sounding. John pressed his lips together, silently rebuking himself. Sherlock still hadn’t looked up from the floor.

John cleared his throat again, and went to pull his jacket off the back of the door.

“Thanks for ah…”

Sherlock nodded, finally looking up at John. The only sign of his former jubilation was a slight flush still standing out on his cheeks. “Of course.”

“Goodbye, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh, I’ll walk you out dear. I’ll come up later with your tea, Sherlock.”

Sherlock didn’t reply. He turned away and began pushing papers off the surface of the desk, ostensibly looking for something underneath, the sudden urgency of his movements suggesting it was extremely important.

John followed Mrs. Hudson down the stairs and was headed for the front door when she stopped him with a hand on his arm. She spoke in a low voice clearly meant to keep from carrying to the flat upstairs.

“John, dear, I know you’re excited about the wedding. Of course, you are. You should be. But try to be careful with Sherlock. You know how he feels about you, and none of this is easy for him. Just… try not to string him along if you can help it.”

John stared at Mrs. Hudson.

“I know you didn’t mean anything by it but… well, he’s more sensitive than any of us care to remember. So just, try to keep that in mind in the next few weeks. Try not to do anything that might give him the wrong idea.”

She patted his arm gently, and then without another word, turned and headed down the hall back to her flat.

John stood, motionless, in the hallway for what must have been several minutes.

He knew Mrs. Hudson had always suspected he and Sherlock were lovers, but this quiet admonition to be careful of Sherlock’s feelings because _you know how he feels about you_ —this was something else entirely.

From the flat above, John heard the first few tremulous sounds of Sherlock pulling a bow over the strings of his violin.

He looked up the staircase to where the light from the stained glass window was casting a bright sheen over the steps.

The trembling notes became a melody John didn’t recognize. It was sweet, light—beautiful, but also, somehow, achingly sad.

Sherlock couldn’t be—surely, Mrs. Hudson didn’t mean…

John shook his head.

No. No, Sherlock had always made it very clear how he felt about matters of the heart, had made it clear from the very beginning and proved it to be true, time and time again. Why would he change his mind now after all these years?

John moved to the doorway, his certainty re-established, but then froze with one hand on the knob as a thought occurred to him.

Wouldn’t the man who had assured him that “sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side” have despised dancing? Wouldn’t he have scorned it, found it frivolous, beneath him? Hadn’t this same man just spent the last hour patiently teaching John to do that very activity that had no purpose other than bringing joy?

John shook his head again to clear it and pulled hard on the door handle.

No. There was no way Sherlock Holmes was secretly in love with him. The idea was absurd. Mrs. Hudson was wrong.

John made his way down the front steps, the lovely, mournful melody still faintly audible from the windows upstairs as John headed down Baker Street. He clenched his hand around his keys in his pocket as he turned the corner.

She had to be.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Things About Bodies Still Alive](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3862588) by [SincerelyChaos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SincerelyChaos/pseuds/SincerelyChaos)




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